#crow is a virtue name

[chaoticcomposition]

ulysses (she/they)

[whencyclopedia]

Sitting Bull

Sitting Bull (Tatanka Iyotanka, l. c. 1837-1890) was a Hunkpapa Sioux holy man, warrior, leader, and symbol of traditional Sioux values and resistance to the United States' expansionist policies. He is among the best-known Native American chiefs of the 19th century and remains as famous today as he was when he led his people.

He is widely known for his part in the Battle of the Little Bighorn in June 1876 and his later celebrity as a performer in Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show, but, for the Sioux, Sitting Bull is celebrated as the embodiment of the four cardinal virtues of his people: courage, fortitude, generosity, and wisdom. He is also recognized for his refusal to abandon the traditions of his people and his efforts to preserve their culture. Although famous as a holy man, prophet, war chief, and hunter, Sitting Bull was also a poet and composer, as well-known among his people for his rapport with wild animals and herbal knowledge as for his leadership.

He was killed while resisting arrest at the Standing Rock Agency Reservation in South Dakota on 15 December 1890 and was buried at Fort Yates in North Dakota. His remains were exhumed by family members in the 1950s and interred at Mobridge, South Dakota, near where he was thought to have been born. Debate continues over whether these remains are those of Sitting Bull, and historians also offer differing views on his legacy. His reputation as a great leader of his people, however, is unchallenged as he continues to be recognized as a symbol of Native American pride, honor, and traditional values, as well as for his stand against injustice.

Youth & Name

Little is known of Sitting Bull's life before the age of 14. His date of birth, given as 1831, 1832, 1834, or 1837, is debated, as was his birthplace until fairly recently. He is now understood to have been born on the Yellowstone River (known to the Sioux as Elk River) in modern-day Montana and was named Jumping Badger (Hoka Psice). He quickly earned the nickname Slow (Hunkesni), owing, according to scholar Robert. M. Utley, to "his willful and deliberate ways" (6). His father was Chief Sitting Bull of the Hunkpapa Sioux, and his mother was Her-Holy-Door from a respectable Hunkpapa family. He had two sisters and a half-brother but would later adopt others as his brothers, and these are sometimes mistakenly referenced as biological siblings.

Chief Sitting Bull taught his son to ride, hunt, and shoot expertly before the boy was ten years old. Young Slow was an excellent shot with bow and arrow and became so closely associated with horses that his peers joked how he even walked as though he were on horseback. When he was 14, he joined a war party against the Crow and "counted coup" against a Crow warrior, knocking him from his horse where he was then killed by another of the party. For this act of courage – defeating an enemy without killing him – Chief Sitting Bull gave his name to his son and assumed the name Jumping Bull. "Sitting Bull" – Tatanka Iyotanka (literally "Buffalo Who Sits Down") – fit the youth's personality as, "according to fellow tribesmen, suggested an animal possessed of great endurance, his build much admired by the people, and when brought to bay, planted immovably on his haunches to fight on to the death" (Utley, 15).

Later acquaintances and writers would claim the name was given him due to his stubbornness or, according to Sioux writer and physician Charles A. Eastman, that he was given the name after forcing a buffalo calf to sit down. The name was actually given in accordance with the tradition whereby a father passed his own name to his son when the boy was recognized as attaining manhood.

Between the ages of 14 and 20, Sitting Bull led his own war parties, and his name became famous among his enemies as a formidable warrior. Utley describes him at around the age of 20:

A heavy, muscular frame, a big chest, and a large head, he impressed people as short and stocky, although he stood only two inches under six feet. His dark hair, often braided on one side with otter fur and allowed to hang loose on the other, reached his shoulders. A severe part over the center of the scalp glistened with a heavy streak of crimson paint. A low forehead surmounted piercing eyes, a flat nose, and thin lips. Although dexterous afoot and superbly agile mounted, he appeared to some as awkward and even clumsy. (19-20)

Around 1857, in a clash with an Assiniboine band, Sitting Bull spared a 13-year-old boy whom he later adopted as a younger brother. When Sitting Bull's father was killed in battle with the Crow in 1859, the boy took the name Jumping Bull and would remain by Sitting Bull's side for the rest of his life.

Continue reading...

[the-trans-folk-witch]

The Seven Deadly Sins: sins personified via animism and the church.

The arte of the witch is syncretic with the arte of demons. To usurp and overthrow the oppressor, and to cause sins within the souls of men. How does a witch do this? the Seven Deadly Sins or "cardinal sins" are the answer.

The image above depicts these 7 sins within the man's heart/soul as being animals. As an animist I can not help but view these animals as being true personification. Symbolism is not a thing to me, but a person. Although I'm sure the creator of this image was very much a good Catholic man who was not an animist, we can still utilize this image today as animists.

In traditional witchcraft it's common to call upon familiars associated with cardinal directions.a common example would be the toad, hare, serpent, and crow. However within my own arte I call upon the familiars of the cardinal sins pictured above.

The traditional meanings of these animals are as follows:

The toad- greed

The serpent- envy

The [mountain] lion- wrath

The snail- sloth

The pig- gluttony

The goat- lust

The peacock (or turkey) - pride.

This list although very eurocentric and representative of my own cosmology, can be reworked to fit your own landscape and culture. If you do not have any of the animals near you, change the list! Get to know the spirits of your land and assign your own familars to these sins.

In cases where the witch is cut off from nature, and the animals' parts are not on hand to conjure the spirit, there are demons traditionally associated with these sins as well. And demons are very present within the lives and bodies (posession)of man. The demons are changed in name and sinful virtue based on time period and culture. But the two most popular lists come from "the lantern of light" and Binsfield. Whichever resonates most is the answer.

The witch may call upon these demons or animal familiars for the arte that is cursing man. What i consider man can very well be the gender or just all humanity (non witches) themselves. But these beliefs are very forcibly removed from modern witch-caucus.

As for the remedy for these sins, one must request the aid of the 7 heavenly virtues. These vurtues are as follows:

The heavenly virtues being the holy opposites of these Infernal spirits of demons or animals. These virtues are depicted as 7 angels, or 7 saints. Again, whichever list you prefer is the answer. The angels are a more modern concept applied by western occultusts. And are taken from my previous post on the 7 angels of planets. They are the main 7 Archangels found in Manila traditional catholic orders.

There are also lists of saints you can call against certain demons listed in the Pseudomonarchia Daemonum which i will share here

The work is never just left or right, but in between the holy and heretical. The saints and demons are beneficial to the witch just as they are to the church. With sin comes hell, and with the holy spirit comes heaven. God commands both, as do witches. Therefore I am now God.

[m3r1m4r5u333]

One very queer post to remind my fellow buddie truthers that patience is virtue...

Never forget that the show clearly called us clowns and crows...

And neither of those is an insult.

If you haven't, I recommend you read up on the history of clowns. Do you know where they evolved from?

Fools... What are fools, in story-telling?

They have always been the breakers of taboos, the ones who dare speak up and illuminate the truth.

That's repeatedly been the role of the "fool" in literature and theatre.

And remember the scene with these modern versions of fools, clowns, in 4x06? Bobby tells Eddie and Buck to be professionals!

...Much like when he has to cut off Buck from flirting with the tapework guy... In season one. The tapeworm guy? It's basically a scene of Buck being blatantly bisexual, totally flirting with a man... And Bobby going: Be a professional Buck, finish this conversation later!

And then that clown scene later on... There's a clown trapped under some (obviously quite phallic) helium tanks, and Bobby yelling about needing to "release the pressure"?

It's a parallel. Go rewatch Eddie's and Buck's first emergency together. They need to release the pressure to save that patient.

And the name of that first episode Eddie appears in? Under pressure. That's also in the season 2 promo, the first season with Eddie. And the songs in those promos... Under pressure by the Queen and David Bowie. And a version of Nowhere to run by Martha Reeves and The Vandellas. It's a love song, about a persistent, devastating love. Fitting for a slow-burn.

Also...

Eddie: "You're a badass under pressure, brother.

Buck: Me?

Eddie: Hell yeah. You can have my back any day.

Buck: "Yeah. Or you know... You could... You could have mine.

....

Then that emergency with the grenade when they first meet...

Everyone originally assumes it's not live. Oh but turns out, it very much is a live grenade, isn't it? We see it exploding. What's a grenade, going off?

Well, it's basically deathly amounts of pressure. Grenades injure and kill from a distance, the blast, the pressure is so powerful.

So the clowns watch that scene, watch Bobby urging Buck and Eddie to release the pressure... They look at Buck and Eddie working together...

And the clowns make their opinion known.

A clown starts choking, and coughs up rainbow colored string. That's the unsaid truth which this fool says out loud to the audience.

"This story is queer. I'm telling you, there are rainbows. I'm choking on them here!"

The combination of clowns, pressure, grenades... Again... Makes me think of the Batman movie Dark Knight, especially the clever bank robbery heist which

Joker - A famous fool type character, also related to fools and clowns... plans.

Btw, some of you may have noticed that I keep rambling about the Joker, and Dark Knight. Why? Because THAT MOVIE IS A CAPRICORN OF QUEERNESS!!!

And there's that clown theme which obviously comes up in 9-1-1, too. The clowns are the queer audience, it's quite clear. That clown scene was written as commentary, to us, freaking out about the queerness of buddie.

In The Dark Knight... Remember that whole conflict of the two freaks, a Batman and a Joker?

It's a battle against conformity. Diverting from the norm. Joker spends the entire movie trying to make Batman see and own his freakiness.

Honestly I think that we queers should worship that movie, it's a tale of us, the outcasts, the freaks, us against the world.

Because we are the clowns, the fools, the freaks that people fear. Who are always told to shut up, and hide. The ones who have always been the outlaws running from the police, still are. Who nobody believes, when we see our kind.

That bank heist in that movie, which the ultimate clown, fool, Joker, organizes?

They enter the bank dressed up as clowns. The Joker is among them, a twofold fool, a jester wearing a clown mask, his true identity unknown to the other clowns.

The bank robbery heist btw includes lots of stuff which make me go "is this intertextuality?, was 9-1-1 inspired by this?", because they remind me of memorable buddie scenes. A failed phone-call ("I couldn't even call you to bail me out of jail!"),

the bank vault with electricity ("What more proof do you need, Eddie! We are trapped in a death box, thousands of volts of electricity...")

the clowns, the queers, hiding from detection, from the gunfire,

then clowns, destroying each other, one by one.

A clown getting hurt because he's an idiot who cannot really count (Buck, Eddie, the embarrassing struggle to get to "bi"?),

This one clown who thinks it's his time to spring out of the box and stop waiting. This shotgun has no ammo...

and the Joker nods, which convinces the dumb math challenged clown that the bank manager's shotgun has no more bullets...

Here's another deathly nod from our favorite fool...

This backfires quickly, the math challenged clown who thinks the gun wasn't "live"... Dies.

A fool just fooled a fool. A third fool cries out in dismay.

In the end... it's the patient fool here who ends up outsmarting the manager, and winning the battle.

Clowns are clever. We see under the surface, we voice the truth, but also, sometimes we lie to save ourself. That's what being an outlaw, an outcast is.

The Joker bides his time, is smart about it, and when the right moment arrives... he does not hesitate. He robs that bank, proves himself to be the smart one. The ultimate fool. The cleverest clown.

So remember the history of us clowns. We are silly, scary, strange, queer, the annoying ones who won't shut up.

And we are the fools. And fools are the truth seers. Tellers. We aren't dumb, we are clever.

That's how the story goes. Ultimately the fools always realise and tell the truth. We clowns, like the Joker... We saw the potential for "aggressive expansion" in buddie. We were there from the start, we looked at that lurking grenade, and thought... I'm seeing something here. And they will keep laughing at us clowns... But they'll learn when it goes off. I do think it's a live one, darlings.

So, how does the heist and the movie end?

Joker survives the danger, ducks the gunfire... And leaves the manager alive.

He also leaves an impression that will forever change that survivor. The Joker sticks a grenade in his mouth. It doesn't kill him, but that grenade is live, it releases a strange, queer gas.

The Joker gently tells the manager that whatever doesn't kill you... Makes you stranger.

Then... The way the Joker spends the entire movie urging Batman to hit him, to kill him... He challenges Batman to make him realise that they are really the same. That they are both freaks, outsiders... Birds of a feather. Batman needs to stop pretending that he isn't a freak.

It's like Buck and Eddie. Take a swing at me.

Wanna go for the title?

And in the end, they both survive this (really quite queer-coded) stand-off. They prove each other wrong.

Joker finds that he's wrong, that Batman cannot bear to kill him. And Batman admits defeat.

He becomes an outlaw, too. He takes the blame for the chaos, falls out of favor. The bat signal is smashed. Batman knows he'll be hunted... but he can take it.

"...Because sometimes... the truth isn't good enough, sometimes people deserve more. Sometimes people deserve to have their faith rewarded..."

And that's why Buck and Eddie, "Buddie" has really never been a tale of two buddies.

The "truth" is a lie. The fools have always seen it.

And so the Joker, the fool, the clown, actually... wins this battle. He is captured but creates another freak by turning Harvey Dent into the Two-Face.

He makes Batman realise who he really is, an outcast. Batman goes into hiding. But Batman creates another freak, Robin.

It's a lesson. Some of us freaks argue for chaos, some will argue for order. But to others we are still the strange ones. Outsiders, outlaws. Queers. Listen to the fool and realize it, own it. See that we are the same.

And they will hunt us, but the circus grows stronger. Whatever doesn't kill you, makes you stranger.

Oh, and the crows I mentioned in the beginning? Well, they called the crows buddies, and told the audience that the crows always remember their tormentors, didn't they.

Do you think they're waiting for these boys to come out, the show asks?

Of course we were, are. And we've got one now. Waiting for another.

After all, sometimes the fool needs to wait and have patience to see the vision materialize. Doesn't mean the fool was wrong. In the end, the crows will feast.

Crows are smart. And the clowns see the hidden truth.

[komorezuki]

The next infernal team in Hell: Skittles and Morax. Problems of demons' representation in s2

Well, I am keep viewing demons in s2 and my attention was drawn to these two.

They were credited as the demon Morax and the demon Skittles.

Lets look more closely at them. Skittles is first. What's the name? Why Skittles? She isnt even multicolored. Ok. She was played by Ann Louise Ross. She is looking like old evil lady. Or like a visitor of Berlin techno rave or of Wave Gotik Treffen idk. I love her honestly.

Her spirit animal is supposedly a raven or crow (or another bird). Look at the black feather on her belt and at the bird skull necklace:

I think she could be associated with goetian Malphas:

Great President of Hell, with 40 legions of demons under his command and is second in command under Satan. He appears as a raven, but if requested, will instead resemble a man with a hoarse voice. Malphas is said to build houses, high towers and strongholds, throw down the buildings of enemies, destroy enemies' desires or thoughts (and/or make them known to the conjurer) and all that they have done, give good familiars, and quickly bring artificers together from all places of the world.

The second one is called Morax. He is clearly a demon from Ars Goetia and Pseudomonarchia Daemonum.

He is a Great Earl and President. He appeareth like a great Bull with a Man's face. His office is to make Men very knowing in Astronomy, and all other Liberal Sciences; also he can give good Familiars, and wise, knowing the virtues of Herbs and Stones which be precious. He governeth 30 Legions of Spirits

Obviously Morax's animal is an ox. *uncovers all jokes about Azi's relationship with oxes*

Morax is played by Florence Nzenwefi. He has big horns (dude something tells me that mask doesnt help you to blend in) and charmingly growls . He wears a long coat and....a sash???

Beautiful blue leather belt with a big ox head buckle. I dont know if that a sash or just baldric for weapon but I have questions in both cases.

It's a sash. According to @vaexathear's theory sash is a sign of power or status. Worn by demon from bottom of the barrel and bla bla bla. Whyyy?

It's a baldric for weapon. Dude did you have a flaming sword weapon? I am curious about what it might be. Sword or saber or axe maybe? How many demons are armed? Lords of the Hell dont wear weapons so why YOU should do.

And the last thing. Does that attack of demons bother you? I mean, they are definitely stronger than people. They can do miracles, and teleport and so on. You can say that lower demons are probably limited in a magic but Shax isn't. She can literally burn you in a lightning. Obviously she wouldnt kill Maggie and Nina because of Crowley's threat. But why not bring bookshop into chaos. Instead of this demons crawl up the stairs one at a time and girls knock them out with a books and fire extinguishers.

A whole demon representation in s2 bothers me. Why are demons so weak? Why are they shown as stupid and clumsy misfits? These ones who was in "legion" are fallen angels too, why they are the damp. Even Muriel can do miracles, but they cant. I am literally feeling bad for them.

[purlty23]

blue! just saw your post abt religious rhetoric & the fandom. do you have any specific instances or "takes" you could give us that youve seen? i know for myself peronally i have very little knowledge on religion as a whole, and could always stand to learn something ♡

Hello crow!!! Always a joy to see you in my notifs<3 Tbh, I’m not an expert either! I’ve only very recently in the past few years gained a big appreciation for theology of all sorts. Ghost was a huge part of the motivation for it, too. Most of the reading I’ve done has been though online resources. Here’s my personal library of PDFs! You can find the Satanic Bible, Greater and Lesser Keys of Solomon, and loads more (plus some misc fiction) I would say the biggest thing that I see in fan interpretations of Ghost and Ministry lore is confusing Catholic virtues with Satanic ones. I’m going to disregard a lot of modern Satanism for the sake of the fantasy lore that Ghost has here, since a lot of modern Satanism isn’t actually even related to religious worship of Satan as a figure, but of the values he as a character has held throughout time. Modern Satanism, especially Laveyan Satanism, is more about worship of the self. Ghost is really interesting because it puts Satanism into the same state of popularity as Catholicism in its lore. Imagine if the Vatican was Satan themed instead. That big. However, some people tend to act as if that means it holds the same values or rules as Catholicism, which simply isn’t true. Ghost Satanism falls more into old classical Satanism (devil worship, summoning, magicks, etc etc), which means it likely does ascribe to the biblical story, same as Catholics do but on the opposite side. While Catholics repent and avoid sin, those who follow the religion in Ghost would STRIVE for sin, and encourage those kinds of actions in order to appease Satan and grow chaos, disorder, and ruin throughout humanity. Where Catholicism has made a name for itself through fear, shame, and the threat of exocommunication, the Ministry would likely value confidence, doing what it takes to reach your goals, and the uglier sides of human nature. Classical Satanism is a bloody affair, after all Of course, all of this can differ depending on how you see the plot of Ghost. Does the Ministry value these things, and if they do, do they act on it? Was Sister’s murder of the Papas in line with these values, and if not, are there newer ideas of what’s pious under Copia’s reign? It’s difficult to say, but one thing can be said for sure.

Ghouls would not abide by these values. By any values but their own, likely. Demons and the undead aren’t known for being particularly good at following rules TL;DR: When puritan culture and ways of thinking derived from shame, religiously motivated fear, and doing the ‘right’ thing are placed onto these characters it doesn’t really make sense. It’s important to ask yourself where your thoughts are coming from, especially if you’ve been raised in a highly religious background. (In fact it’s important to ask yourself where ALL thoughts and opinions you have come from in order to fight bias, societal constructs, and ESPECIALLY prejudices against others and against even yourself)

[moorishflower]

I'm watching Much Ado About Nothing, the Tate and Tennant version, which I have somehow managed to go without seeing until this night, and the palpable carnal desire that they have for each other is outstripped only by the fact that neither of them would piss on the other to put out a fire. Truly the most enemies to lovers of all time so obvs I noodled around w/it

London is as London always is in summer: the temperature is agreeable enough, but outside the skies are dim, wetting the ground with incipient rain. The cobblestones of the path leading to the governor's manse have turned dark grey with damp, and all beyond that, out into the countryside just beyond the city proper, is mud.

Dream sits in the parlour, watching the rain pattering onto the ground outside. His cousin, Jessamy, does much the same; when the weather is thus, there is little else they can do but mark it.

She must see something through the mist, though, that he does not, because her head lifts, and after a moment of contemplation says, "Is that a horse?"

Dream peers over her shoulder. It is, indeed, a horse, a mud-splattered creature whose rider hies hell for leather up the long drive. There was a time when Dream would have said he could not be a man of any import, for he travels not by carriage, but times are much changed now from what he knew as a child. A prince will sit a horse as well as a footsoldier, as his younger brother had said before he had left for war, and so Dream is up upon his knees trying to get a better look at the same time as his cousin.

"He looks a messenger," he says, and indeed, not ten minutes pass before there is the sound of slamming and laughing and a great deal of chatter, and then the doors to the parlour are gusted open on the wind of his eldest brother's good mood. Destiny, for once, is no staid and stern taskmaster, but buoyed by cheer, the messenger walking beside him with one arm outstretched in offer, though Destiny will never take it. Though an imbalance of humours has left Destiny without some of his sight, there is no crack nor crevice of the manse that he does not know by heart.

"I've learned in this letter that Lord Constantine comes this night to London!" Destiny crows. In his gnarled fingers he holds said letter, still trailing a few scraps of reddish wax from its edge.

"She must be very close by now," the messenger adds. "When I left, she was not three leagues off."

"And how many gentlemen were lost in this action?" Destiny asks. He helps himself to the seat beside Dream, settling down with a sigh and a creak of his joints.

"Not many, sir, and none of any importance."

"A victory is won twice when all involved are brought home safely. And the letter said also that Lord Constantine has bestowed much honor on a young man named Matthew."

"Much deserved on his part," the messenger says, coming to stand obsequiously at Destiny's elbow. Dream raises an eyebrow at him. He knows not that he will gain no favours here through kowtowing, and so Dream is content to let him make a fool of himself if he so wishes. "Matthew has borne himself beyond what any could expect of one so young. He wears the face of a lamb, yet performs the feats of a lion, and has so greatly exceeded all expectations that I should fail to describe them now."

There is some further talk of letters -- what Dream surmises from the messenger is that this Matthew has an uncle in the area of London, and that upon receiving word from his kin he had burst into tears. Destiny appears to think this a most sincere display, though Dream is privately of different opinion. He cannot say that he enjoyed tears before the annulment of his first marriage, and he cannot much say that he enjoys them any more now.

"And what of Lord Montanto?" he asks, cutting in before the messenger can extol the further virtues of Sir Matthew. "Has he returned from the wars or no?"

The messenger visibly flounders at being addressed so directly. "I know none by that name, my lord," he says. "No Lord Montanto in our army."

"Speak plainly, Dream," Destiny says, waving one hand and nearly flicking Dream under the chin. He knows his brother too well to think it an accident.

"My cousin means Sir Robert Gadling," Jessamy pipes up. She is a sweet girl, Dream thinks. Too sweet, by far, to bear his tart company.

[laiostoudenn]

OC MEME tagged by: @hotnerdywizard (so much love sent your way ❤️) totally not playing favorites here....

B A S I C S - Full name: Othello Nulara, in elven "Nu" means hope & "lara" means death or victim ("the death or victim of hope") - Gender: Male - Sexuality: Gay - Pronouns: He/him O T H E R - Birthplace: Baldur's Gate, upper city - Job: Presently, druidic activist in Waterdeep - Phobias: Autophobia (the fear of being alone), athazagoraphobia (the fear of being forgotten) - Guilty pleasures: Forehead kisses and touches, sweets (mainly chocolate), romantic baths - Hobbies: Gardening, reading (mainly in parks, hopefully with one of his partners), stargazing, astronomy

M O R A L S

Alignment: Chaotic neutral. Sins: Murder, lust Virtues: Gentleness, bravery, caring, loving, reliable T H I S  O R  T H A T - Introvert / Extrovert - Organized / Disorganized - Close-minded / Open-minded - Calm / Anxious / Restless - Disagreeable / Agreeable / In between - Cautious / Reckless / In between - Patient / Impatient / In between - Outspoken / Reserved / In between - Leader / Follower / Flexible - Empathetic / Unempathetic / In between - Optimist / Pessimist / Realist - Traditional / Modern / In between - Hard-working / Lazy

R E L A T I O N S H I P S - OTP: Othello/Gale, Othello/Heron (@duvirii), Othello/Halsin, Othello/Peri (@thats-a-lot-of-cortisol) - Acceptable Ships: None - OT3 4: Gale/Othello/Heron/Peri - Brotp: Shadowheart/Othello - Notp: Any pairing that doesn't involve Othello and his boys - Enemies/not fond of: Astarion

B A S I C S - Full name: Corvus (meaning "crow") Faye - Gender: Male - Sexuality: Bisexual - Pronouns: He/him

O T H E R - Family: Father > Grant Faye; Mother (deceased) > Lillith Faye - Birthplace: Reithwin Town, Shadow-cursed lands - Job: Assassin - Phobias: - Guilty pleasures: does killing count? - Hobbies: Writing, walks, wanting to learn how to sail, sewing

M O R A L S - Alignment: Chaotic evil - Sins: Murder, anger/wrath - Virtues: Patience, leadership, honor

T H I S  O R  T H A T - Introvert / Extrovert - Organized / Disorganized - Close-minded / Open-minded - Calm / Anxious / Restless - Disagreeable / Agreeable / In between - Cautious / Reckless / In between - Patient / Impatient / In between - Outspoken / Reserved / In between - Leader / Follower / Flexible - Empathetic / Unempathetic / In between - Optimist / Pessimist / Realist - Traditional / Modern / In between - Hard-working / Lazy

R E L A T I O N S H I P S - OTP: Corvus/Shadowheart & Corvus/Astarion - Acceptable Ships: None - OT3: N/A - Brotp: Corvus/Minthara - Notp: Any pairing that doesn't involve his OTPs

tagging @hartsvale @mercymaker @rosenfey @timdownie @evermeet @vspin (feel free to ignore this, it was just a bit of fun!)

[ifjgh]

Second, is everyone's favorite Japanese Jock, Manzo Tsuyoshi.

Here's some basic info! <3

Goes By: Manzo Nicknames: Monzo, The Ox DOB: Oct. 21st, 1955 Age: 22 (until his B-Day) Gender: Male, but isn't too picky on his pronouns (He/Him/They/Them) Sexuality: Bi/Pan Ethnicity: Japanese Occupation: Student (Health and Medicine Major), Two Possible side-jobs, Leading Quarterback for the Football/Soccer Team Socioeconomic Status: Lower-Class, got in collage due to a sports scholarship Place of Birth: Kyoto, Japan Family: Younger sister, Loving Mother and Father who try their best for their son like working extra jobs to pay for the things he and his sister needs Height: 6'8” Weight: 240 lbs. Disabilities: None (?) Possibly being a bit too big for things. Fashion Style: Jock Up Top, Biker Down Below, Colorful Coordination (or lack thereof): Out on the field in a game, extremely coordinated and in his element, off the field, bull in a China shop and not really spatially aware Personality Type/Trait: Campainer - Enthusiastic, Creative, Free Spirited, Can always find a reason to Smile, Energetic, Aggressive, Self-Assured Introvert/Extrovert: Major Extrovert, total Party Bro, will go to anything he's invited to and anything he's not Intelligence: Below Average, if it's not a subject related to sports, he'll know next to nothing about it and he'll probably never will, usually get's help from Attilio's tutoring, but even then he still gets barely passable grades, very air-headed Self-Esteem: At a good place, he loves being the big guy on campus, but he's usually not a braggart about that, but he might brag a little bit about being the best on the Football/Soccer Team though, which is more then earned Hobbies: Sports (watching, playing, talking about, whatever), Making friends, riding and taking care of his motorcycle (she's named Mayumi, btw), supporting and helping others Skills/Talents: Strongest of the Main 8, Courageous and will never back down from a bet, can get any vehicle working to it's best potential (aka excellent mechanic), is a great cook (learned from parents so he could cook for his sister while they worked) Loves: Mayumi, Football/Soccer, Car Magazines, Pranks Morals/Virtues: Courageous, Fairness, Respect, Humility, Loyalty, Generous, Family Phobias/Fears: Being seen as weak, nerd, or a “chicken”, flunking out of collage, crashing Mayumi, Bugs Angered By: Genuinely Mean People, Others being taken advantage of, people touching Mayumi Pet Peeves: Being told what to do more then once, bland food Obsessed With: Mayumi, Sports, Cars Bad habits: Not listening when he needs to, Zoning out in general, Being a bit too pushy Desires: To prove how strong he is and help as many people as he can Flaws: Always looking for his next “battle” to win, kinda dumb Secrets: He's constantly worried about his family back home, and works extra hard at his jobs to so he can send a little bit of money back home each month. He'll never let his worry show, no one is allowed to worry about him either, but he knows he can't hide it forever. Doesn't have a legal license to drive Mayumi (He's got a legal license back home in Japan, but not here in the States) and he probably never will. Regrets: Not being able to support his family as much as he “feels” he should. He wishes he wasn't so dumb and could pay attention in class more. Accomplishments: Star quarter Back for the Football/Soccer Team, has won a few Strong-Man competitions here and there Languages Known: Fluent in Japanese and has decent English, and has picked up on some Italian (From being Attilio's roommate, it's mostly swear words) and a little bit of Gaelic (From hanging out with Patty)

(Things are subject to change the more I get things fine tuned, I've also kept some things secret for the time being. - Crow <3)

Bonus! Basic Profile Sheet, for funsies! X

[collidescopeeyes]

Time is a Roulette Wheel: Swain WIP

SFW

There's been a raven following you around since you started approaching Noxus occupied territory. It's more annoying than you thought it would be, honestly–getting jumped by a shadowy cabal of assassins would be a pain in the ass, and if you're going into negotiations with the Trifarix you'll need the upper hand of surprise. No, you carefully do not use your powers while Swain is watching, even though it's a huge pain in the ass. You can't even get rid of them, either, because the one person you ask when you get a moment of fucking privacy seems to think they're just crows. Even though they're a) too huge to be crows, and more importantly b) have six glowing red eyes. A side effect of Noxus hemomancy, the ferryman says cheerfully as he takes you across the gulf to Shurima. The so-called crows don't seem to be inclined to cross the open water, and the one that's been tailing you watched balefully until your ship disappeared into the distance.

Another raven is on you as soon as you disembark. You're not the only one, either–travellers of interest all seem to get a corvid escort. It follows you in the days it takes you to travel out of town, into contested territory, to the City under siege by Noxian forces. You don't bother learning it's name–they’ll change it soon. It's in a key location to expedite trade routes between the existing Noxian settlements, but it's resisted capture so far by virtue of its defences, natural or otherwise. The city sports a grand wall, set against the edge of a narrow ravine on one side and a mountain on the other, the city was accessible only by a great drawbridge–by the same turn, though, it was constrained in size and relied on it's status as a trade hub to sustain its populace. Currently, you believe the Noxians plan was to starve them out, but that had its own complications–the city was dug in for a seige, and the Noxians had to keep their own troops fed and safe from the Shuriman wildlife, not to mention the resources required to sustain an extended seige. That makes it the perfect place to make your point.

The raven follows you as you trek your way out to the ravine. The mountain blocks the moon, and a lone figure without a light passes without notice.

(It was always dark, in the Void, yet you could still see. You thought that was just the way it was. It didn't occur to you until after that it was you that had changed.)

You reach the edge of the ravine, the wall towering overhead. The raven perches on a jagged rock nearby. You lean over the abyss, holding out hand out towards the wall, and you don't pull time backwards so much as you tear it away like peeling wallpaper. Back, before the walls were built, and then further still, to when the desert had water and the streams eroded this cut into the earth. The stone around you blurs, reality ripping at the edges, and then the city stands undefended.

You turn to the raven. It blinks, one eye at a time, so that it's never not looking at you. “Tell Grand General Swain I’d like a word. I’ll be in Tereshni.” You glance back at the city, now swarming with the beginnings of panic. “I can put the walls and the ravine back after you have the city, don't worry.”

The bird cocks it's head, and then takes flight north. You wait until it's gone, and then rewind yourself back to the room you rented. You're safe, for now–the ravens probably knew you'd paid for the place, but they couldn't get in on their own, and it would take at least a few days for Swain to arrive from Noxus Prime.

The world spins into little fractals of darkness, and you feel sleep dragging you down like a riptide. Undoing centuries like that will take you out for a week at least, but you have no doubt Swain will send someone after you before then.

Here's another trick you learned from your time in the Void; whatever brings you back, it brings you back perfect. Sleeping in the Void generally ended with you dying anyway, but if you really can't afford to be out that long, well. It's not like dying is anything new for you.

—

You come back a few hours later, clean up after yourself, and then sleep until morning. A polite knock wakes you.

You're greeted by a man in military uniform, who bows his head at you. “We're here to escort you to Noxus Prime, per Grand General Swain’s command,” he says. “Are you ready to depart?”

You blink. “What's your name?”

“Colonel Garrett, ma’am,” he says. “And you're Iso…?” He trails off, searching for a last name. On the rooftops around your rented room, ravens peer intently down at you.

“Yes,” you answer instead. He blinks. “It's like seven am, Garrett. I'm going to get breakfast, and then we can go.” You grab your bag off the side table, sweep past him and head for the market.

There's a whole squad you hadn't seen in the courtyard beyond your door. Garrett falls into step beside you, and they fall into step behind him. The pastry vendor you stop at doesn't even charge you.

—

They escort you to a private ship, and from the ship a carriage. Your escort spares no expense, though nobody exactly expects them to pay–the one thing they don't bend over backwards to accommodate you on was getting to the capital quickly. Before long, the looming plateau of Noxus Prime pierces the horizon. The gate guards let you through, and you're taken to a tower near the center of the city. There, you're taken to a refined yet reserved sitting room, and Garrett bids his farewell. A maid comes in to serve out tea, but other than that, you're alone.

You're sure this is a power play of some kind. You're sure it's also no coincidence that the assortment of artfully arranged finger foods are all the sort of thing you like. You are kind of baffled that Swain's magic demon arm that fed on secrets was being used to set the snack menu, but also, you're not complaining. It didn't take an army of spying birds to figure out that you're food motivated.

Swain comes in about five minutes later. He sweeps into the room, and he has the sort of commanding presence that makes him seem grand without doing anything in particular, an air about him that demands attention when he's doing something as utterly mundane as entering a room. You can't even attribute it to the glowing demon arm you know he has, because it's hidden behind the imposing coat he wears over his shoulders. He sits elegantly on the couch across from you, and does not say a word. You get the distinct impression that he's sizing you up.

You blink at him. “Did you want some tea, or can we get straight to business here?”

His expression doesn't change. “Let's. You brought down the walls of Bitharix to let our troops in. Why?”

You nod. “I figured you wouldn't take my offer seriously without a gesture of good faith, and a show of power.”

He inclines his head. “That is the Noxian way, yes. What is it you seek?”

“I'm from a world beyond the Void. I want to go home. If you agree to help find me a way back, I'll be your weapon for a year,” you tell him evenly. You figure it was better to be concise here. Swain does not strike you as a man with an open schedule.

He considers you clinically for a long moment. “I assume there's a reason you elected to bring this offer to me specifically, and not the Trifarix?”

You nod. “You’re the one with the demonic arm that eats secrets. I figure if anyone knew how to get me home, it would be you. I can also guarentee that if at any point during my employment the demon in your arm happens to take control of you, I can undo it.”

His eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. “And how do you know that?”

“About your demon, or that I can fix you?” You ask. He doesn't answer. You shrug. “I know a lot of things about this world. I know about the Immortal King that built the bones of this city, I know about the Black Rose and their experiments, and I know who you have on staff to kill you if you ever lose yourself to that arm of yours. I also know that all the promises in the world don't mean shit when it comes down to it, so you can test my powers however will make you believe me.”

He considers you. Then he says “Very well,” and then explodes into crackling red energy. It's only years of instinct that moves you from the path of the arcing scarlet lightning that fan across the couch you were just sitting on, flickering back in time to stand just by the doorway. The air burns, and you watch as shadowy wings flare from his back as he comes to hover in the center of the room. He looks almost disinterested, the fucker.

You flicker back to the now ruined couch, darting aside from another blast of eldritch energy, and as you close the distance between you a blast soulfire rips through you. The burning wound it leaves barely lasts for a second before you rewind it, and as you reach your hand out towards him you watch your skin crack and burn from being too close. Then, you rewind him, until that burning shadow recedes, and he lands on both feet with an infuriating grace. He examines the shining red of his hand for a moment, and then looks up at you, now unharmed and more than a little annoyed.

“Acceptable,” he says with a nod. “I will vouch for you before the Trifarix. There will be a meeting in the morning. In the mean time, you may avail yourself to Noxus’ hospitalities. Good day.” He inclines his head at you, and then sweeps out of the room just as swiftly as he came in. As he leaves, Garrett enters again, now followed by a small squadron of maids. You have the distinct feeling that you've somehow been played.

“Is he always like that?” You ask Garrett, pointing at the door Swain just left through.

“I'm sure I don't know what you mean, ma’am,” Garrett says placidly, pointedly not looking at the destroyed room around you. The maids begin to pick up the shattered china.

You open your mouth, then groan. “Crazy fucking Noxians,” you mutter under your breath, and wave a hand across the room as you rewind it to its pre-Swain state. One of the maids squeaks in surprise.

Garrett blinks once, and that's about the extent of his display of surprise. “I'll show you to your accomodations, then?” He asks. You nod, and as he turns and walks out of the room, you grab one of the macarons off of the newly restored biscuit platter. If you're going to get ambushed at your job interview, you're at least getting sweets out of it.

[travelbasscase]

I am making an introductory post

Hello! This blog has existed for too long without an introduction. I figure one is probably not a terrible idea.

Name: just call me Bass, moots know my real name

Age: minor

Pronouns: she/her/ella/היא

Languages: English, learning Spanish (I'd like to think I'm at a B2, but I think that might be optimistic) and Hebrew (definitely not better than A1)

Hobbies: playing bass (duh), reading, drawing, bothering my dog, praying, watching my shows, making lists.

Interests: Infectious disease, Judaism, Zionism, bugs (bees, wasps, ants, mosquitos, and spiders, mostly. I hate mosquitos, but vector-borne illnesses are fascinating), geography, languages.

Fandoms: The West Wing (Toby my beloved), Les Miserables (I actually enjoyed Russell Crowe's Javert), Pride and Prejudice (Lizzie Bennet my beloved), and House (Chase my beloved).

Fun facts: I know the capital of every country in the world (if given a piece of paper, I could list off every country and its capital from memory, ordered non-alphabetically by continent. I do this when I'm bored). I have at least four mandibular torii. People not using the Oxford comma sends me into a fit of blind rage (that's an exaggeration, but I am passionate about the virtues of the Oxford comma). I named this blog by looking around my room and attempting random objects until tumblr said the username was free.

@wilsons-threelegged-siamese inspired me to make an intro post with his intro post.

[shivunin]

Hello there! ✨

New prompts? Here we go.

I was talking of Moby Dick yesterday with a friend, so of course it must be number 7, for whomever you'd like to force in the same bed with a soon-to-be LI!

Ooooh this was a really tasty one! Thanks, Arja c: I am really happy with this, and it bridged a gap in the timeline I've been fiddling with for a while.

(But. Arja, I gotta ask: as someone who has not read the book in question, is there an 'only one bed' scene in Moby Dick???)

(Tropes Prompts)

For 7. Muses are forced to share a bed:

Back to Back

(Arianwen Tabris/Zevran | 2,015 Words | CW: Canon-typical references to darkspawn/death/the Blight, alcohol mention)

The three of them stood just inside the doorway, various packs already piled off to the side. The room was comfortably warm, did not smell of dead bodies, offered two beds, and featured a fire burning already in the hearth. By the standards of the rest of the castle, it was the height of luxury. Even so, they hesitated. 

Morrigan spoke first.

“I will not be sharing, in case either of you have fostered any such foolish notions,” she told them acerbically. “‘Tis hardly fair for the Crow to have the whole bed to himself by simple virtue of gender.”

“Did I say anything?” Arianwen asked, arms crossed. When she opened her mouth to go on, the Crow in question spoke. 

“I am not so delicate as I look. Surely I can manage one evening’s sleep on stone, yes? It will still be an improvement on packed earth.”

“No,” Wen said sharply. “You are not a dog.”

Zevran turned and stared pointedly at Wen’s mabari, who’d already slung himself over the foot of the bed in question. His tongue lolled out in canine delight and his fur was clean for once, as she’d given him a cursory bath before sneaking him into Redcliffe’s castle. Wen was probably the only one who could make the hound move, and she had no intention of doing so. The poor fellow deserved a soft bed for once. He worked as hard as any of them.

Morrigan, plainly assured that she need not participate in this conversation, turned and walked away. In Wen’s periphery, she could see the witch beginning to draw some sort of sigil over the stone before the door. Good. These people were dodgy as any she’d seen.

“I will keep my hands and knives to myself if you will,” Tabris told Zevran coolly. “It is no closer quarters than we share in camp, Crow.” 

One of his eyebrows arched, but he inclined his head slightly. 

“As you wish, my lady.”

“Don’t call me that,” she snapped, hunching her shoulders. “Ugh. Warden, if you won’t use my name. You’re not my servant.” 

She was certain she did not imagine the glint of mockery in his eyes when he swept her an elaborate bow. 

“As you wish, my dear Warden.” 

She didn’t like that either, but she suspected further objections would meet with further prodding. Wen ignored him and went to the far side of the bed, where she could at least shed her armor in peace.

“Not a dog, not a servant,” Zevran murmured to himself, unbuckling his armor on the other side of the bed. “I find my employment opportunities sadly diminished so soon.”

“I hear the Crows have an opening,” Wen told him, casting him a sharp look, and he grinned at her. 

“Let us hope, for both our sakes, that they do not know it yet.”

“Hmph,” was all she could muster in response. Her armor slapped the ground when she tossed it down, but the release of its burden was too much of a relief to stay annoyed. Wen sighed and stretched her hands behind her head, rolling her head first one way and then the other. When she glanced up, the assassin was pulling the covers back and climbing beneath them. 

“Ah—did you want this side?” he asked when he saw her looking, one leg on the mattress, the other on the floor. Wen narrowed her eyes at him. 

“No,” she said. “Just don’t take all the blankets.”

He smiled again and opened his mouth, but she held up a hand. 

“I’m not in the mood for jokes,” she told him. “I might still have to kill a child to save this place. Just let me sleep.”

Zevran shut his mouth and nodded, climbing silently beneath the covers. Wen joined him a moment later, thinking poisonous thoughts at the chamberlain who’d stuffed the four of them in this room. It made strategic sense to stay in one room, but…

But the nightmares were not going to be kind to her tonight. Perhaps it would be wise to warn him before…before. 

“Hey,” she said when Zevran rolled over. 

He glanced over his shoulder at her, his hair backlit by the hearth behind him. For a moment, he looked almost gilded with it—a foolish notion. Wen pushed the thought aside with a vague sense of irritation. It was already hard enough to find the right words; it did not help that he was so plainly assured of his own good looks. She certainly wasn’t going to add to it. 

“Yes?” he said, when she didn’t go on. Wen pressed her lips into a hard line and rolled over onto her side. This corner of the room was shadowed, blocked from the light by the broad lines of the bed and their bodies. 

“Nevermind,” she said instead, biting the end of the word off. “Goodnight.”

A pause, sheets rustling behind her, a quiet breath. Morrigan still sat before the door, her legs crossed, her hands palm-up on either knee. Arianwen did not know if she was meditating or taking first watch and she didn’t intend to ask. Morrigan wasn’t going to kill them while Wen slept; that was all she really needed to know right now. 

“Goodnight, Warden.” 

|

Tabris stood in a wide field, surrounded by heaving bodies on either side. They tossed around her like a river of putrid flesh, horrible syllables clawing their way from ruined throats, sick weapons waving in the air. None of them took notice of her, but they did not leave her space to breathe, either. 

If she stayed here for too long, she would surely choke to death on the smell thick in the air. Even as she knew this, she knew, too, that leaving was impossible. 

There was no way out. She was trapped on all sides. She would die here and be carried onward, like a rotting tree branch in a blood-filled stream, until all the bits that made her distinct from anyone else were worn away by the tide. She knew this with a surety she could not question or define, and the knowledge of her own death bound her hands from fighting back. 

In the distance, a beautiful song rose, as cloying and thick in the air as the smell of unwashed bodies and burning flesh. She was drawn to it even as it repulsed her, caught in the inevitability of the sound and everything that it meant. The archdemon was calling her. She had no choice but to follow, hands bound and feet heavy with the sound. She had no choice. She had—

Wen sat up, gasping for air. 

One hand dragged at the neck of her tunic, loosening the ties even as she clawed her own skin. Something shifted beside her and she flinched away, knocking her head against the carving on the headboard. 

“It is only me,” Zevran said in the darkness beside her. Tabris relaxed slightly, though she still panted for air. 

The fire had died sometime in the night, leaving darkness and a chill in its wake. She could not see him, but she could hear him, could feel the shift in the bed when he moved again. After a moment, something soft brushed her hand. 

“Wine,” he told her. “It will help.” 

Wen abruptly remembered something Morrigan had said to her when Wen had brought him back to camp. She’d said something about him poisoning them all one day and killing them in their sleep, or words to that effect. Tabris unstoppered the wineskin anyway and took a sip, letting it clear some of the thickness from her throat. She took a longer pull a moment later, then passed it back to the left. Zevran took it from her silently, his hand never once brushing hers, and she could hear him drinking, too. 

“Nightmares?” he asked. 

Wen, whose breath had finally begun to slow again, nodded before remembering he couldn’t see her. 

“Yes.”

“Hmm,” he said. “I thought that might have been you several evenings ago.”

“Yes,” she said again. Her screaming had woken the whole camp. She was not proud of it and did not appreciate him mentioning it again now. But—he had given her his wine. That allowed him some leeway, she supposed. 

“All Wardens have them,” she added, touching the marks she’d made at her neck. Some of them stung, but she didn’t feel blood. That was good, she supposed. “Alistair is used to them, he said. They are still new to me.”

Zevran made a noise of acknowledgement, then swallowed again. 

“More?” he asked. 

Wen hesitated. She could feel the wine burning in her stomach, too much on an empty stomach. She hadn’t been interested in the castle’s offer of food, but she regretted it now. 

“Yes,” she said, and took the wineskin from him when it brushed against her hand.

“Every night?” he asked. 

“Most nights.”

The wine was red, sharp, faintly bitter at the end. Wen rolled it over her tongue before swallowing, tasting each note as intensely as she could. They chased the last of the nightmares from her mind, to her relief. The wineskin was mostly empty when she passed it back. 

“I’ll buy more wine on the way out of town,” she told him, the closest she would come to an apology. Zevran moved—perhaps he shrugged—but he, too, must have remembered that she could not see him. 

“There is no need,” he said. 

Wen snorted and slid back under the sheets, flicking her braid out of her way as she went. No need, he said, but she knew how this worked. She would buy him wine and she would not owe him for this. She was no fool. 

“Sometimes, in Antiva, I would…feel for a bedmate or a weapon,” he said carefully, “when I woke and I did not know where I was. It helped, I think.”

Wen said nothing and she did not move. Zevran drank again, then moved on his side of the bed. His foot brushed against her calf when he rolled over, but neither of them acknowledged it. 

“Goodnight, Warden.”

“Goodnight,” she hesitated. “Zevran. And—thank you.”

“It was my pleasure.”

Wen grimaced at that. She rolled onto her side and held herself still for a moment, thinking. At last, she sighed and shifted backward until her back brushed against his. 

“Warden?” 

His voice was wary. Wen frowned, ready to move again. 

“You were awake, too,” she said sharply. “So—here. If you have another nightmare.”

His back was tense against hers. She wasn’t sure how to interpret that. 

“Nevermind—” she began, but he was already speaking. 

“I—thank you, I did not mean—”

“I’ll move if you—”

“No, there is no need; I was not asking you for—”

“Fine, then, shut up and go to sleep. It doesn’t have to be a whole—a whole—thing.”

Ser Grr snored loudly at the foot of the bed, startling them both. When she finally recognized the sound, Tabris snorted and tucked an arm under her head. If this was the caliber of pillow the people in castles used, she supposed she was happy enough with the rolled-up blanket she’d left in the camp. How glad she would be when they saw the last of this place. 

“This makes us even,” she said after a moment. “For the wine.” 

At last, Zevran relaxed back against her. The next breath he took pressed his spine to hers. It was an odd sensation, and not one she was entirely sure she enjoyed. Wen waited. 

“I said there was no need.”

“You did.” 

“But—very well. We are even. Save the life debt, of course.”

“Of course,” she said, though the idea of him owing her a life debt still made her deeply uncomfortable. She wedged the pillow between her arm and head and tried to make herself comfortable again. 

The last thing she remembered before she fell asleep was the sound of his breathing, quiet and even behind her, and the soft pressure of his back against hers. She did not wake again until morning.

[in-between-daydreams]

Basic Info

Full Name: Kai Foley

Nickname: K

Age: 20 y/o

Pronouns: he/they/she/it & neopronouns

Earth Date of Birth: 4th December

I-B Date of Birth: 4th Mawlee

Nationality: Sancteitee

Place of Residence: Sanctuary, Sancteitree

Occupation at the Sanctuary: healer, bard

Physical Appearance

Species: Shapeshifter, Bitweenian

Main forms: human-ish, australian shepherd, crow, cockatoo, snake

Hair Color: He changes it with his mood

Eye Color: Base is heterochromia green + purple, otherwise changes with his use of magic

Height: 158 cm

Scars: circular scar between the ribs, second circular scar under it, bite mark on their left hip

Tattoos: spiraling glowing tattoos along their arms, shoulders, neck, sides, and legs; star over his heart with a branch linked to each of his partners

Accessories: necklace that opens on a slideshow of pics from his travels and memories; angel fangs, earrings; ; grimoire/commonplace book, with a shoulder strap

Personality & Co

Gender: androgynous, trans, genderfluid, genderqueer

Orientation: panrose, demirose, poly

Love Languages: Words of affirmation, Physical touch, Quality time

Main Hobbies: performance arts, reading, napping

Beliefs (religious & philosophical): Guidors of the Lost, Betweenism, Betweenian Polytheism

Main colors: green & purple

If they were a plant: hyacynth or weeping willow

If they were an animal: snake

Earth Star Sign: Sagittarius

Myers-Briggs: ENFP-T - The Campaigner

Enneagram: Type 4 - The Individualist

Seven Deadly Sins: Gluttony

Seven Heavenly Virtues: Faith

Archetype: The Jester

Character class: Druid & bard, rogue

Alignement: Chaotic Good

Favourite foods: bubble tea, coffee, tea, pizzas, tacos, fruit salad

Least favourite food: fish, most meat

Health

Brain Stuff: autistic with a side of adhd, generalised anxiety, bipolar disorder, light ocd, borderline personality disorder, hallucinations

Magic Ailments: Fractured soul

Physical Disability: chronic pain from his soul, chronic fatigue from magic usage

Aids: glasses to hide his shifting eye color, cane to help his strenght and balance when needed.

Magic & Abilities

Primary language: common

Other languages: Sanctee

Dynamic/Sumna: Pratel

Sumna Caracteristics: hypnotic voice (easier with music), “feeling bluetooth”

Main magical abilities: Darkness manipulation, illusion manipulation (due to darkness manipulation), shapeshifting, clairsenses

Weapons & fighting: bo-staff & flow fans to channel magic

[microwaving-tesilid-argente]

character settings and dynamics of my s-class heroine genderbend AU

Tesilette dynamics get a little crazy and substantially different from canon here.

Trio & ReedAilette dynamics under cut, Tesilette in reblogs. If you're on mobile, read from here so you can scroll less.

(VERY long post under cut)

Hestio Ligenel

Literally the same characterisation as canon Hestio, idk what to tell you. Looks the same as well.

(Same HC as for canon Hestio) Very careful with her hair. God forbid anyone who messes with her bottles of shampoo and conditioner and hair oil

She’s a bit conflicted about the fact that she’s the only one among her friends without a nickname. Unfortunately, the fact is that her name is literally un-nicknameable

Ephael “Elphie” Chaletino

Decently buff

After the toy mansion, she trained like crazy to become stronger. There's only so much a supporter can do, after all, if the bruiser being buffed is weak to begin with

She would be even buffer if she had the choice, but unfortunately the stigma bearers are still treated like shit. Her diet is nowhere near optimal

Realised her given name was masculine when she was around 5. When she asked the orphanage’s caregiver why she was given this name, she was told that the old man priest who named her had passed a couple years ago so no one knows. They're all just using the name she was given

Ephael doesn’t really care about her name, though. She thinks it's funny when people see “Ephael” on the name list and waste their time looking for a man.

Tesilina gave her the nickname Elphie (Did you really think Hestio would’ve given her such a cute name?)

Hesphael dynamics

Ephael likes to flop over hestio and put her arms around hestio and lace her fingers together and to press kisses against her hair and ear and neck and to crow about how hestio can’t get rid of her. Hestio thinks they're just bantering.

Tesilina has to watch them be idiots for several years before Hestio finally figures it out.

Luckily for Tesilina, this happens before her regression starts so she doesn't have to sit through this a bajillion times

Tesilina “Tes” Argente

Hestio gave her her nickname because her name was too long.

Constantly harassed by men. Hestio & Ephael have taken to being her guard dogs and chasing off men on her behalf

Her being a stigma bearer ends up being good sometimes. When people try to retaliate against the three of them, Tesilina just says, “They were defending my honour… I have long since decided to devote myself to the Strict Order alone, after all” and then people can't really fault her for being so pious

(It doesn’t really work on all ppl when it’s a man whom people see as a respectable bachelor, especially if they're someone high-ranking within the vatican.)

When the subjugation is easy, incompetent men sometimes try to take her tank role in order to “protect the lady” in the name of “chivalry”. But when it’s hard, Tesilina becomes just a dispensable stigma bearer who is of course expected to tank at the risk of her life. It’s a headache for her because she’s deprived of opportunities to farm EXP and divine power, on top of being extremely condescending. She can’t even tell the men off for trying to do her job.

She’s still in the Knights of Worship division without Hestio & Ephael

Hestio & Ephael tried to transfer in but were thwarted by the division, who said that subjugations were "serious business, not outings for girlies to giggle"

Tesilina decided not to transfer out because dealing with their shit farms the Virtue of patience quite well. And because she’s never learned self-preservation in her life. Hestio had to stop herself from strangling Tesilina for this.

Reed

(MAJOR SPOILERS FOR NOVEL CH 130+ / WEBTOON S3 OR 4)

Present Round!Tesilina is more cutthroat than in canon, because the two friends who have accompanied her throughout her regressions have become a source of obsession for her.

She's seen them die too many times and in too many horrible ways

And they've always been protective of her as well, so it's impossible for her not to care about them. They - and not Ailett - are her crutch and her source of strength and what makes her feel like herself and a human, in a world that is determined to make her feel otherwise.

Like straight up she doesn't even gaf about Ailett anymore. She was interested for a short while but Ailett isn't the object of her obsession like in canon.

I hit tumblr's image limit so the full scene is here: link

The hair clip Reed is using is the one Hestio & Ephael bought her for her 15th birthday.

As Tesilina, she only ever wore it for formal occasions because she didn't want to risk breaking it in combat. As Reed, she’s now confident that she won’t get into fights that seriously endanger her, or the clip. And this counts as a formal occasion – she’s arranging their collective funerals.

The one Reed is using is stolen from the current round. She forgot to take it from the 100th because she was too preoccupied being empty and depressed and headed straight for the abyss. And when she had time to think in the 17th, she started to wish she had it. Well, it’s not like 17th really needs it anyway. 17th wasn't even supposed to be alive to use it.

Reed visits Hestio & Ephael right after watching her own funeral from the shadows. This scene is meant to be the chapter right after the scene above about Reed and Ailett's falling out.

This scene is a major spoiler for the fic, but this story is too ambitious and requires too much setup for me to realistically finish, so whatever. I hit tumblr's image limit, so here

Continued in reblogs:

Tesilette dynamics

Ailett's character settings

Bianca

[sunsetstarrogue]

Right Where You Left Me

Chapter Three

Other Chapters - (1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18)

Characters - Rhaenys Targaryen (daughter of Rhaegar) x Robert Baratheon (political)

Summary - Rhaegar's life is spared by the valiant intervention of Arthur Dayne, moments before Robert deals the fatal blow. With their lives preserved, Rhaegar and the remaining Targaryens seek refuge on Dragonstone, eventually making their escape to Essos. Regrettably, Rhaegar is forced to leave his eldest daughter behind.

Left in the midst of her adversaries, Rhaenys grows up surrounded by those who view her as an enemy. As time passes, she becomes entangled in the treacherous game of thrones, particularly in the aftermath of Cersei and Jaime Lannister's public execution for their incestuous relationship.

Caught in a web of schemes and deceit, Rhaenys finds herself compelled to employ similar tactics in order to ensure her own survival.

Word Count - 8.1k

With two moons passing since Robert Baratheon claimed her maidenhood, Rhaenys found herself on the precipice of a destined marriage to the very man who had taken her virtue. The way events had unfolded filled her with a surprising contentment. In the aftermath of that fateful night, she had braced herself for the king's rejection, or worse, a swift exile to Winterfell. However, the tapestry of fate had been woven with a different thread. Rather than casting her aside, Robert sought her company, seeking her out in a manner that both perplexed and intrigued her.

To her astonishment, the king extended his favor even beyond the confines of his chambers. He granted her permission to accompany him on a hunting expedition, disregarding the fact that her name day had long since passed. It was an unexpected gesture, an invitation into his world of masculine pursuits. In an act of peculiar intimacy, he took it upon himself to teach her the art of the crossbow, despite her lack of interest in such weaponry. The lessons became a strange dance of their connection, a delicate balance of power and submission.

For Rhaenys, the woodland escapades were a tumultuous experience. The harsh reality of the outdoors clashed with her refined sensibilities. The earth beneath her feet transformed into a treacherous labyrinth, where each step threatened to ensnare her in the clutches of sticky mud. As they ventured deeper into the wilderness, a chorus of crows perched on gnarled branches seemed to fixate their gaze solely on her, their dark eyes penetrating her very soul. It was as if the forest itself conspired to unsettle her, to test her resilience.

Yet, despite her disdain for the rustic surroundings, Rhaenys understood the significance of these endeavors. She grasped the necessity of preserving Robert's interest, of nurturing the fragile connection they shared. These outings into the wild became her offering, a display of loyalty and devotion. She would endure the discomfort and the watchful audience, for she knew that denying the king's desires would only lead to her own undoing.

Little did she know that her compliance held greater implications. The risk of bearing Robert's child before marriage loomed over her like a shadow, filling her with both trepidation and a fierce determination. The expectations that weighed upon her fragile shoulders threatened to shatter her resolve. Yet, a profound understanding took root within her. She recognized that this daring gamble held the power to unravel the carefully crafted plans her uncle and Jon Arryn had woven, plans that entangled her fate with that of Robb Stark, the heir of Winterfell.

And so, she ventured forth, driven by a mix of calculated strategy and the yearning for a future not dictated by the whims of others. The tumultuous path she embarked upon was rife with uncertainty, but in the depths of her being, Rhaenys felt a glimmer of hope.

In the end Rhaenys' audacious gamble bore fruit, forever altering the course of her destiny. The revelation that the very king who harbored a deep-seated enmity towards her late father, Rhaegar Targaryen, had chosen her as his bride sent shockwaves rippling through the realm. The memory of the disapproving gaze Jon Arryn cast upon his foster son and the subtle twitch of Ser Barristan Selmy's hand upon hearing the dark-haired king's proclamation is etched vividly in Rhaenys' mind.

The news of the impending union between the Targaryen princess and the mighty Baratheon ruler spread like wildfire, carrying whispers and gasps from the taverns of King's Landing to the far reaches of the kingdom. The ravens traversed the skies, swiftly relaying tidings across the narrow sea, where even Essos trembled in awe of the monumental alliance taking shape. Amidst the flurry of gossip and speculation, a letter arrived, bearing the seal of House Martell, from Rhaenys' uncle, Prince Doran. It was a missive of congratulations, a tribute to her impending marriage to the king. However, her emotions conflicted and her heart heavy with unspoken truths, Rhaenys wanted nothing more than to toss the letter to the flames, its words devoured by the flickering tongues of fire.

Though her desires urged her to remain silent, Rhaenys understood that the weight of her new role as queen of the Seven Kingdoms demanded a different response. Obligated to act in accordance with her newfound station, she composed a letter, its tone meticulously crafted, extending gratitude to her uncle for his well-wishes. The inked words flowed like a river, concealing the underlying turmoil that surged within her. The truth of her emotions remained locked away, concealed beneath the facade of duty and obligation, as she traversed the treacherous path set before her.

Contrary to Rhaenys' apprehensions, the repercussions of the royal announcement proved to be less tumultuous than she had envisioned. Although a flicker of outrage coursed through the corridors of power, predominantly from the ladies of the court who had harbored ambitions of seducing the king and ascending to the throne themselves, the response was surprisingly subdued.

The silence that enveloped her previous betrothed and his kin was deafening, leaving Rhaenys to ponder the mysteries of their restrained reaction.

In her mind, she had braced herself for an onslaught of fury and indignation from the North. She had envisioned a horde of irate men from the cold lands descending upon King's Landing, their voices raised in righteous anger, invoking oaths and honor as battle cries. Yet, to her astonishment, the anticipated storm never materialized. The gates of the capital remained devoid of the thunderous clamor of northern warriors.

Instead, there was but a solitary letter that found its way into Rhaenys' hands, a letter bearing the distinctive mark of House Stark. Its contents remained a mystery, yet its mere existence spoke volumes. It stood as a testament to the restrained dignity of the North, a stark contrast to the tumultuous emotions that coursed through Rhaenys' veins. She held the parchment delicately, her fingers tracing the sigil of the direwolf, while her heart fluttered with a mixture of curiosity and anxiety.

The delicate parchment, adorned with the regal emblem of House Stark, seemed to shimmer in Rhaenys's hands as she gingerly unfolded the missive. Her eyes traced the elegantly penned words, each stroke of ink seemingly etching itself into her memory.

"Princess Rhaenys,

I extend my sincerest congratulations to you and his Grace on your betrothal. It is with a heavy heart that I acknowledge the end of our intended union. I had held visions of you becoming my cherished daughter, a beacon of grace and strength within the walls of Winterfell. Alas, destiny has woven a different path for you. Nonetheless, I have no doubt that the king, in all his prowess, shall prove to be a worthy husband, while you, my princess, shall undoubtedly shine as a paragon of queenship.

Know this, dear Rhaenys, that Winterfell shall forever hold a place for you within its hallowed halls. As long as I draw breath, your presence shall be welcomed and cherished.

Yours faithfully,

Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell"

Her expectations of the letters' contents were swiftly dismantled, replaced instead by an unexpected sense of solace. The words written by the Warden of the North brought forth an unusual comfort, assuaging the lingering doubts that had plagued her troubled mind.

She had braced herself for the sting of resentment, for a torrent of scornful words that would punctuate the rupture of their intended union. Yet, the absence of hatred within Lord Stark's letter was like a balm for her weary soul. In a realm consumed by politicking and shifting loyalties, the knowledge that she was not held in contempt by the mighty Lord of Winterfell breathed a glimmer of peace into her troubled thoughts.

Ever since Robert's proclamation of their betrothal, worry had etched deep furrows upon Rhaenys' brow. Her mind was consumed by an array of concerns, each one gnawing at her peace of mind. Chief among them was the life within her, the growing seed of Robert's lineage that took root in her womb. Her prayers, whispered fervently on that fateful night when she first shared a bed with the king, had seemingly been answered. Yet, with each passing day, the fear of her pregnancy becoming apparent before she and Robert were wed cast a shadow over her.

The weight of societal judgment loomed large in her thoughts. She knew all too well the consequences of being deemed with child before the sanctity of marriage graced their union. The whispered accusations of whorehood, already slung carelessly by the spiteful tongues of the courtly ladies, threatened to intensify. But Rhaenys vowed not to suffer their cruel words silently. Once she ascended the throne, her power as queen would be wielded with a vengeance. No man or woman would dare defile her name with the poison of that accursed word. The weight of her future crown bolstered her resolve, fueling a fire within her that would not be extinguished.

In the confines of their intimate conversations, Rhaenys had bared her deepest worries to Robert, laying bare the burden that weighed upon her heart. And true to his word, the king had orchestrated the hastening of their impending nuptials, a testament to his understanding and devotion. As the tidings of their advanced wedding date rippled through the gilded corridors of the capital, they carried with them not only the announcement but also a swirling tempest of rumors.

Whispers snaked their way through the court, weaving intricate tales of the princess and the king, each laden with cruelty and curiosity. Amongst the Tyrell girls, Rhaenys had learned, these murmurs had found fertile ground. The conversations they shared over delicate cups of tea had transformed into a dissection of her situation. Such knowledge, conveyed by her trusted maid Taliya, ignited an inferno of fury within Rhaenys' heart. It was an indignation born from the realization that her private affairs had become a subject of public consumption.

The very notion that the courtiers, with their insatiable appetite for gossip, had taken to discussing her so openly caused her blood to boil. While she understood the allure of their curiosity, she could not condone the brazen disregard for her privacy. Yet, Rhaenys found herself drawn to confront these Tyrell girls, to pierce through their facades and gauge the depths of their audacity. Surely, they would not dare to voice their suspicions in her presence, but perhaps they would, propelled by the foolhardy innocence that often accompanied the sheltered existence of young girls.

Lady Olenna Tyrell, the formidable Lady of Thrones, was said to be in the company of these girls on occasion. Known for her unabashed frankness, she became a focal point in Rhaenys' plan. If she were to quiet the relentless rumors that swirled around her betrothal, Rhaenys knew she must either persuade or, at the very least, temper the old rose's sharp tongue. The task ahead was daunting, fraught with the complexities of politics and personal pride. Yet, she understood the necessity of taming this particular storm, for the preservation of her reputation and the stability of her future reign depended on it.

As the sands of time trickled away, marking the dwindling moments before her marriage to the throne, Rhaenys found herself caught in a web of anticipation and uncertainty. Each passing day brought her closer to the grand procession down the hallowed aisle of the Sept of Baelor, a day she yearned for with both eagerness and trepidation. It was the day she would cast aside the weight of the dragon cloak that had shrouded her shoulders for far too long.

Contemplation clouded her mind, casting a veil of indecision over the path she should tread. The question of whether to don the very cloak that Rhaegar had lovingly wrapped around her mother after their union gnawed at her soul. It was the same cloak that her grandfather, a Targaryen king, had draped upon his sister-wife. In its delicate folds, she sensed the echoes of protection and sanctuary, the promise of House Targaryen to safeguard their own. Yet, she could not escape the bitter truth that lay entwined within the fabric.

The cloak, meticulously crafted by unfamiliar hands, seemed to harbor a malevolence, a haunting reminder of broken vows and shattered trust. Rhaenys had witnessed firsthand the anguish her grandmother endured, the horrors inflicted by a husband who betrayed the sanctity of their union. In the face of such cruelty, the cloak became an embodiment of illusion—a mere facade of a harmonious and secure marriage. It whispered tales of happiness, yet delivered only misery and misfortune.

With a heavy heart, Rhaenys weighed her options, her mind veering towards the decision that shunned the symbolic burden. To wear the cloak would be to embrace a legacy tainted by deception, an omen of a fate she was determined to forge anew. In the depths of her being, she understood that the path to her own happiness lay in relinquishing the trappings of the past, in choosing a destiny unburdened by the illusory promises of a garment steeped in bitter history.

The cloak would remain a relic of the past, a reminder of the pain endured by those who came before her. Rhaenys would cast it aside, stepping into her future unburdened, forging her own legacy, and defying the expectations that threatened to ensnare her. In the depths of her soul, she found solace in this choice, knowing that the path she treaded would be her own, free from the shadows of the past and resplendent with the light of her own desires.

In the wake of her decision, Rhaenys realized the weight of the task that lay before her—the creation of her own bridal cloak. Traditionally, it would have been the responsibility of the bride's family to undertake the intricate embroidery, but in the sprawling halls of King's Landing, she found herself devoid of kin. The absence of her family in the capital left her stranded, without the customary support to fashion her garment of significance.

Turning her gaze inward, she pondered the delicate matter, her thoughts weaving through an array of possibilities. It would be peculiar, even inappropriate, to enlist the aid of her maids in such a task, blurring the lines between their roles and her own. However, a glimmer of hope flickered in her mind as she considered an alternative solution—an unexpected ally in the form of Rhea Florent.

Rhea, a distant cousin to the Lady of Dragonstone, had arrived in the capital several years prior. Her presence was initially prompted by the macabre spectacle of the lion twins' executions, witnessed by her cousin Selyse Florent and Stannis Baratheon. Yet, unlike her kin, Rhea had chosen to extend her stay in King's Landing. Amidst the opulent gatherings, she stood apart—a gentle soul with an inherent shyness that set her adrift amongst the other ladies from the Reach. This outsider status had drawn Rhaenys to the young Florent, her own desperate yearning for companionship finding solace in Rhea's company. Though their connection remained more acquaintanceship than true friendship, it mattered little to Rhaenys, for she simply sought solace in the presence of another during the darkest days when her pain and heartbreak threatened to consume her.

Lost in contemplation, she began to envision the design she desired for her cloak, each thread and motif carrying a semblance of her own identity and hopes for the future. But just as her thoughts danced amidst the tapestry of possibilities, a knock echoed through the door of her chambers, pulling her back to the present. Weary of hosting anyone within the confines of her personal sanctuary, Rhaenys let out a resigned sigh, before summoning Talya, her trusted attendant, to grant entry to the unexpected guest who sought her presence.

Talya, the girl who stood faithfully by Rhaenys's side, possessed a delicate and diminutive frame. Despite being only a year younger than her mistress, she seemed to be perpetually dwarfed by her surroundings. Soft, cascading strands of blonde hair framed her face, and her eyes shimmered with the warm hue of chestnuts. Talya's beauty mirrored her kind heart—a rare combination that endeared her to Rhaenys. Among the sea of faces that populated the court, Talya stood as the sole individual who had earned the title of friend, a true confidante. Rhaenys had bared her soul to Talya, recounting the tender and tumultuous moments shared with the king on that fateful night. And in the depths of her sorrow, she had sought solace in the comforting embrace of her dear friend, shedding tears that seemed to never stop.

It was amidst this intimate backdrop that Talya's voice broke the silence, bearing news of a visitor who sought an audience with the princess. "Lady Olenna Tyrell wishes to speak with you, My Princess." The announcement jolted Rhaenys from her thoughts, catching her off guard. Though she had intended to visit the Tyrell matriarch and the hoard of ladies in her palm, she had not anticipated that Lady Olenna would take the initiative to seek her out instead. Concern gnawed at her, leaving her to wonder what motives might lie behind the unexpected summons.

Amidst her thoughts, Talya's gentle voice pierced the air, offering a suggestion to send Lady Olenna away under the guise of illness. However, Rhaenys dismissed the notion, her determination to face the impending encounter unyielding. "No, Talya, that won't be necessary. Allow her entry, and kindly inform the kitchen to swiftly prepare cakes and tea to be brought to my chambers. I shan't tolerate any tales of the old crone criticizing my hospitality," Rhaenys instructed, her tone laced with a mixture of authority and concern.

As Talya hurried away to execute her instructions, Rhaenys rose from her wooden chair, a flicker of amusement dancing across her features as she observed her friend's hastened departure. Talya's hurried steps betrayed a hint of clumsiness, an irony that amused Rhaenys given her role as a handmaiden. A smile tugged at the corners of Rhaenys' lips as she silently wished for Talya's carefulness, lest she stumble and find herself sprawled upon the floor. Despite the slight amusement, Rhaenys held a deep fondness for her dear friend, appreciating the unwavering support and companionship Talya had offered her during the darkest of times.

As Lady Olenna entered the chamber, a glimmer of amusement danced in her eyes, mistaking Rhaenys's smile as a genuine display of pleasure. "I must say, I did not expect My Lady to be quite so happy to see me," she remarked, a sly undertone coloring her words. Rhaenys responded with a laughter that failed to reach the depths of her eyes. She was well aware of the crone's intentions, understanding that Lady Olenna sought to provoke her, yet she refused to be ruffled by such tactics.

"Why, Lady Olenna, I am most delighted to see you," Rhaenys replied, her tone tinged with practiced diplomacy. Slowly, she circled around the round table, purposefully making her way towards the formidable woman. She extended her arms, enveloping Lady Olenna in an embrace, feeling the stiffening of the old lady's frame. Pressing her lips gently against the creased skin of the matriarch's cheek, Rhaenys witnessed a fleeting moment of anger flicker in the depths of Lady Olenna's eyes. Satisfied with the reaction, Rhaenys allowed a self-satisfied smile to grace her face.

"Please, do join me, My Lady," Rhaenys gestured towards the round table, where the anticipation of cakes and tea filled the air. "I have summoned the kitchen to bring forth our refreshments, and they should be arriving shortly. Take a seat, if you please,"

"Very well, then," the old lady said, making her way towards the round table and firmly settling herself upon one of the wooden chairs. Rhaenys positioned herself in the chair closest to Lady Olenna, observing with delight as a faint pucker of annoyance marred the elder woman's lips. Ah, let the old crone stew in her agitation, for it would only serve to facilitate Rhaenys' endeavor to unravel her motives and discern her vulnerabilities.

Rhaenys regarded Lady Olenna with a quizzical expression. "Is there a reason why you sought me out, My Lady?" she inquired, her curiosity piqued by the unexpected visit.

"It has come to my attention that you and I have never had tea together. I wished to change that, especially now that you are to be queen," the Lady of Thrones responded, her tone carrying a hint of intrigue.

Perplexed, Rhaenys probed further, "I fail to comprehend. What does my impending role as queen have to do with sharing a cup of tea?"

Lady Olenna's eyes twinkled with wisdom as she explained, "Well, once you ascend to the throne, your days will be filled with endless responsibilities and duties. There will be little time for leisurely pursuits, such as having tea with an old lady like myself,"

The weight of Lady Olenna's words settled upon Rhaenys, her realization dawning that her future as queen would indeed be consumed by countless obligations. While she harbored no desire to share tea with the elder woman even in the present, she couldn't deny the logic behind Lady Olenna's observation. However, Rhaenys chose not to voice her true feelings.

A sheepish smile tugged at Rhaenys' lips. "I must confess that I haven't given much thought to how busy I will be once I assume the role of queen."

Lady Olenna nodded knowingly. "It is understandable, given that your engagement to the King seemingly appeared out of thin air,”

Rhaenys sighed softly. "I admit, the news of my betrothal to His Grace came as quite a shock to me," she confessed.

"Did it truly come as a shock to you?" Lady Olenna inquired, her voice laced with a knowing undertone. Her leathery hands reached across the table, settling upon Rhaenys' intertwined fingers, their weathered touch contrasting against the young princess's delicate skin.

"I am not sure what you mean, My Lady," Rhaenys replied, her voice poised and composed, masking her true thoughts. She was acutely aware of the underlying question that lingered in the air. Lady Olenna desired to unravel the enigma behind the swiftness of her engagement to Robert, and Rhaenys yearned to hear the Tyrell matriarch voice her suspicions aloud. If accusations were to be made, let them be spoken openly. Rhaenys had no patience for veiled games; she was determined not to allow Lady Olenna to triumph over her.

"It's only that... surely you must take notice of how rapidly your wedding is approaching. Just a moon ago, you were betrothed to the Stark boy, and now, in a mere two moons' time, you will assume the role of Queen consort. It is quite... unusual," Lady Olenna remarked, her words pregnant with implications.

Unusual it may be, Rhaenys thought, her eyes narrowing subtly. Of course, the circumstances surrounding her betrothal were far from ordinary. She had maneuvered swiftly to capture Robert's attention, relying on the fickle whims of fate to align in her favor. Time was of the essence, and she had seized the opportunity with cunning precision. If she had hesitated, the Baratheon lord would have swiftly turned his gaze elsewhere, drawn to other temptations and distractions. The realm's perception of their hastily arranged union mattered little in the face of her impending triumph. In just two moons' time, Rhaenys would marry Robert, and her son would be destined to inherit the realm as his birthright.

"I cannot claim to understand the King's and his Hand's motives in arranging my marriage to his Grace on such short notice. As a mere woman, I do not possess the ability to discern the inner workings of men's minds," Rhaenys responded with a touch of resignation in her voice. She acknowledged the mysterious circumstances surrounding her union with Robert, yet remained poised, refusing to succumb to the taunting tone of Lady Olenna's words.

Lady Olenna's words drip with sarcasm, her tone laced with mockery. "Ah, yes. The mysterious ways of men and their impeccable delicacy in orchestrating your union with Lord Robert. I am certain you were kept blissfully unaware of the whole affair," she retorts, a sly smile playing on her lips. Rhaenys feels the surge of anger within her, struggling to suppress the urge to snarl at the audacious lady. How dare she enter my chambers and mock me in this manner? It appears I have underestimated the audacity of the Tyrells.

Before Rhaenys could retort, Talya gracefully entered the room, accompanied by the other maids who promptly arranged the table with tea and cakes. With a tender touch, Talya placed Rhaenys' favorite lemon cake before her, a silent offering of solace amidst the tension in the room.

Lemon cakes had always held a special place in Rhaenys' heart. They were a delicacy made from the lemons her uncle had specially sent for her. As her eyes lingered on the treat, a tempting urge to devour it immediately tugged at her restraint. However, she resisted, mindful of the scrutiny that Lady Tyrell's sharp eyes would surely cast upon her. An intriguing thought then struck her— did Olenna Tyrell possess knowledge of the life growing within her womb ? Rhaenys doubted it. Even if the shrewd lady had suspicions about her and Robert's secret rendezvous, she could not possibly be aware of the child growing inside her. Only Robert and Talya shared that intimate knowledge. Nonetheless, Rhaenys knew that in due time, her pregnancy would become undeniable, securing her position at court. The rumors of premarital intimacy would fade into insignificance, overshadowed by the birth of a Baratheon heir. No rumors of pre marital coupling will touch her, it wouldn't matter at that point at least.

With tentative resolve, the Dornish girl delicately withdraws her hands from the vice-like grip of the woman seated beside her. "I must admit, My Lady, you possess an abundance of knowledge when it comes to understanding the ways of men. After all, your years of experience with husbands, sons, and even grandsons must have granted you invaluable insight. If only I could acquire half the wisdom you possess," Rhaenys says, her tone light but laced with a hint of irony.

A gasp escaped her lips as the woman seized her hand once more, yanking her forward with force. The sharpness of Lady Olenna's nails pierces Rhaenys' delicate skin, prompting a soft moan of pain.

"Listen closely, girl. Do not mistake me for a fool. I may not comprehend the intricacies of how you captivated the King's attention, but hear this," the widow leans closer, fixing a piercing gaze upon her. "Do not, even for a fleeting moment, believe that the King's choice to marry you signifies love. Men like him do not confine themselves to a single bed. How foolish you are to cling to such hope, thinking that love can be found within the cursed walls of this capital,"

A surge of fury ignites within Rhaenys, prompting her to wrench her hand from its captor's grasp and rise from her seat. "You have gravely mistaken me, My Lady. I am far from being a naive and foolish girl, regardless of how much you may desire it. It is rather amusing that you assume I would seek love from the King. I am well aware that love alone cannot hold a man's loyalty. Why should I squander my affection on such a man? Let me remind you, Lady Olenna, I am not easily deceived," Rhaenys retorts with conviction, her voice steady and unwavering.

A charged silence envelops the chamber as both women lock eyes, their gazes locked in a battle of wills. The air crackles with tension, each refusing to back down. The room becomes a battlefield of unspoken words and simmering defiance.

Exhaustion washes over Rhaenys, her spirits dampened by the encounter with the crone. Weary and drained, she realizes she lacks the energy to continue engaging with Lady Olenna. With a firm tone, she asserts her desire for the Queen of Thrones to depart.

"We have barely scratched the surface of our conversation. It would be wrong to leave it unfinished," the old lady remarks, a mischievous glint in her eyes. Rhaenys can feel her patience wearing thin, contemplating forcibly escorting the elderly woman out of her chambers if she utters another word.

"Excuse me, but I am feeling quite faint" Rhaenys interrupts before the widow can speak again, swiftly calling out to Talya for assistance.

"Talya, please inform Lady Olenna's guard that she wishes to return to her quarters," she requests, her maid promptly departing to relay the message to the guards.

"Well, it appears our afternoon together has reached its conclusion. I shall look forward to our future encounters, My Lady," Rhaenys declares to the Thorn Queen, her tone masking her true feelings. Without further delay, she retreats into her bedchambers, shutting the door behind her. As the door closes, she hears the scraping of Lady Tyrell's chair on the floor, followed by the shutting of her own quarters.

Emerging from her bedchambers, Rhaenys rejoins the common area, where Talya awaits. Sensing her mistress's somber mood, the handmaiden endeavors to uplift her spirits, determined to bring a smile back to Rhaenys' face.

"Would you like me to pour you some tea? It will go well with your lemon cake." Talya's soothing voice pierces through the fog of Rhaenys' thoughts, offering a glimmer of clarity. Determined not to let the encounter with the old crone ruin her mood, she decides to allow her fair-haired friend to brighten her spirits instead of dwelling on her frustrations.

"Yes, please pour some tea for yourself as well," Rhaenys replies, her gaze fixed on Talya's graceful movements. She observes as the tea cascades into the delicate cup, its porcelain surface adorned with intricate blue dyes, depicting a crown of painted flowers. With practiced hands, Talya places the cup in front of Rhaenys' previously occupied seat, enticing her to reclaim her place. The indigo-eyed girl settles back into her seat, her eyes never leaving Talya's graceful presence.

Moments later, Talya presents the plate bearing Rhaenys' beloved lemon cake. "Here, indulge in your cake while your tea is still warm," her devoted maid suggests.

As Rhaenys takes her first sip of the hot tea, a searing sensation tingles on her tongue, causing her to involuntarily curse. Talya's melodic laughter bubbles forth, finding amusement in her princess's minor mishap. Before long, Rhaenys joins in, her laughter echoing in harmony with her dear friend's joyous sound. In the presence of Talya, she finds solace and a profound sense of mirth that she seldom encounters elsewhere. She contemplates if anyone else could bring her the same unadulterated happiness, but the doubts loom large in her mind.

"Must you find such amusement in my pain, dear Talya? It hardly befits your ladylike demeanor. Have I not taught you better?" Rhaenys playfully chides her younger companion. Talya feigns offense, her expression mirroring mock indignation as she swiftly retorts, "I, unladylike? I dare say, I have never heard anything more slanderous!" Their laughter intertwines once more, filling the room as they surrender to a comfortable silence that envelops the princess's chambers.

Sitting within the sanctuary of her chambers, Rhaenys savors the tranquility that envelops her, accompanied only by her dear friend and a plate of delicious cake. Oh, how she longs to bask in this simple pleasure for the remainder of her days. Yet, deep within her heart, she knows that such an idyllic existence can never be. Behind the doors of her sanctuary, they may be equals, friends sharing laughter and secrets, but beyond those confines, their roles as princess and servant dictate their interactions. This realization weighs heavily upon her, a pang of melancholy nestled within her soul.

Talya, her first true friend, is a treasure she holds close, but the knowledge that their closeness must remain hidden from the world is a bitter reality she must accept. It tugs at Rhaenys' heart, knowing that she can never openly express the depth of their bond to others. The limitations imposed by their respective positions dampen the joy they find in each other's company, casting a shadow of disappointment upon their otherwise cherished connection.

Occasionally, Rhaenys allows her thoughts to wander into realms of what-ifs. What if she had been raised as the true Targaryen princess she was? Would she have been bound by the Valyrian customs, compelled to marry her own brother, Aegon? Or would the path have led her to a union with her uncle, Viserys? Perhaps, she ponders, there could have been a glimmer of affection between them. Viserys had been her sole companion during their formative years. But such musings serve only to stir futile longings for a life forever out of reach.

Interrupting her thoughts, Talya's voice breaks through the veil of dreams. "What did Lady Tyrell want with you?" she inquires.

Rhaenys takes a moment to compose herself, her gaze shifting from the remnants of the cake to meet Talya's eyes. "Nothing of importance, my dear friend," she replies, a touch of defiance in her voice. "With any luck, I managed to scare her off today. The old crone should worry about her own grandchildren,”

A mischievous glint sparkles in Talya's eyes as she leans closer. "I heard from one of the ladies in the kitchen that Lady Margaery and her cousins were off stealing kisses from some of the stable boys. It seems Lord Mace has little control over his spirited daughter," she confides, a hint of scandal lingering in her words.

Rhaenys leans back, a mischievous glimmer in her eyes as she begins to share her thoughts with Talya. "Oh, everyone knows that it's Lady Olenna who truly wields the power over Highgarden, her oaf of a son does not hold enough power to dictate the life of his own daughter," she muses, her voice laced with amusement. "As for the girl, well, let her have her little kisses. After all, she's destined to marry Renly Baratheon. It's only a matter of time before her husband seeks his own pleasures with her own brother. If I were in Margaery's shoes, I daresay I would have indulged in far more than just a simple kiss,"

Talya's laughter dances through the air, filling the room with a joyous melody. She nods in agreement, her eyes shining with mirth. These conversations, filled with whispered gossip and shared secrets, transport Rhaenys back to the days of her youth. In those bygone times, when the formidable presence of the Lannister queen still haunted the halls of the Red Keep, laughter was swiftly silenced in Rhaenys' chambers. The queen did not like laughter coming out of her room. But now, with the golden-haired lioness no longer reigning over King's Landing, Rhaenys relishes every moment of laughter shared with Talya.

As the echoes of their laughter fade, Rhaenys can't help but wonder. Is this what it feels like to have a sister? In Talya's unwavering companionship, she finds solace and a bond that transcends the confines of their respective stations. Though not bound by blood, their connection runs deeper than many blood relations she has known. And in that realization, a sense of belonging and contentment settles upon her heart.

She often found it all too easy to forget that she had sisters. Three of them, to be precise, although they were merely half-sisters. The news of their birth had reached her when she was a tender five-year-old girl. Lyanna Stark, her father's second wife, had given birth to twin girls named Visenya and Viserra. It was on that fateful day that the seeds of bitterness took root within Rhaenys' heart.

As she grew older, Rhaenys slowly unraveled the reasons behind her deep-seated resentment towards her sisters. The birth of the twins had marked the turning point, the catalyst that sparked the corruption of her once pure heart. She could still vividly recall that sorrowful night when Lord Varys, the Master of Whispers, had shared the news with her. Tears streamed down her face as she clutched the cloth doll her father had lovingly crafted for her even before her birth.

In a fit of anguish, Rhaenys had cast the cherished doll into the fiery depths of her bedchamber's hearth. The flames hungrily devoured the cloth, reducing it to mere ashes within moments. All that remained were two tiny sapphires, once the doll's eyes, now gleaming amid the remnants of the inferno. Those glimmering gems served as a constant reminder of the fractured bond she shared with her sisters, forever etched into her memory.

The birth of Visenya and Viserra only served to solidify the consuming thoughts that had plagued Rhaenys ever since Rhaegar had forsaken her. With the arrival of Aemon, she had clung to the desperate belief that her father's actions were nothing more than a grievous error, a mistake he deeply regretted. Even after her mother's untimely demise, she had chosen to hold onto the flickering hope that her father still carried remorse for abandoning them.

In a cruel twist of her imagination, she had woven a narrative where her father despised the child borne by the Stark girl. She daydreamed that, despite leaving her behind, he still harbored a love for her that surpassed any affection he could ever have for the bastard boy. Yet, the knowledge of Visenya and Viserra shattered these fragile illusions.

It became painfully evident that her father did not consider Aemon a mistake. The mere existence of another child conceived within Lady Lyanna's womb, while his eldest daughter withered away in a desolate castle, was a deliberate act that bore no resemblance to a mere error in judgment. It was a deliberate choice, a conscious decision that pierced Rhaenys's heart with a cruel and unforgiving truth.

Her father had moved on, had other daughters to call his own. Her father's moving on had left a bitter taste in Rhaenys' mouth, a harsh reminder that she was no longer the sole bearer of his paternal love. Once, she had taken solace in the belief that even with Aegon and Aemon, she remained his cherished daughter, his only daughter. Yet, that comforting notion shattered like fragile glass on the day Visenya and Viserra were born. Her father had other daughters of his own now, and soon after, a third daughter followed suit—Rhaenyra, a name that grated against her own.

The similarity in their names only added salt to her wounds, a mocking echo of the bond she once shared exclusively with her father. And to make matters worse, rumors whispered that her aunt Daenerys had become more like a daughter to Rhaegar than a mere sister. It was a twisted irony that even her own aunt had managed to snatch her father's attention away from her.

As the eldest child, Rhaenys had assumed she would share her parents' affections with her younger siblings. But now, she had to come to terms with the reality of sharing Rhaegar with half-siblings she had never met before. Not only did she have to share her father, but she also had to share her mother, not with Aegon, but with the Stranger—the looming specter of death that had stolen her mother away from her.

Talya's voice, gentle and concerned, pierced through the haze of Rhaenys' thoughts, pulling her back to the present moment. Fatigue weighed heavily upon her, a constant companion in these recent days. The unborn babe within her womb seemed to sap her energy, yet despite the weariness that plagued her, Rhaenys found solace in the knowledge that this exhaustion was a small price to pay for the joy of cradling her precious child in her arms. The love that swelled within her heart overshadowed any weariness that threatened to consume her.

"Yes," she replied, her voice carrying a hint of weariness. "I have grown quite tired. It is best that I rest now,"

Concern etched across Talya's features as she offered her support. She stepped forward, ready to lend a helping hand to the weary princess.

The two women entered the serene sanctuary of Rhaenys' bedchambers, the air heavy with a sense of tranquility. Talya swiftly set about arranging the pillows and sheets with practiced ease, ensuring that every aspect of the sleeping arrangements was just right for the weary princess. Each pillow was plumped, every crease in the sheets smoothed out, offering a haven of comfort for Rhaenys to sink into. The room exuded a sense of warmth and familiarity, a sanctuary from the outside world.

With a graceful gesture, Talya beckoned Rhaenys to climb onto the bed, her movements gentle and reassuring. Rhaenys followed her lead, her weariness urging her to seek solace in the embrace of the soft bedding. Meanwhile, Talya gracefully glided toward the window, her delicate fingers reaching for the blood-red curtain that billowed gently in the evening breeze. As she pulled it closed, the dying rays of the sunset were muted, casting the room in a soothing twilight glow.

With the room now enveloped in a hushed ambiance, Talya turned her attention back to Rhaenys, her gaze filled with genuine concern. "There, that should do it," she murmured softly. "Is there anything else you need, Princess?"

Rhaenys' fatigue was momentarily lifted as she gazed at Talya, her dear friend and confidante. A gentle smile graced her lips, an expression of gratitude for the unwavering support she had received. "No, this is perfect. Thank you, Talya," she replied, her voice carrying a hint of appreciation.

Talya's eyes sparkled with warmth and sincerity. "Call for me if you need anything, Rhaenys," she offered, her voice filled with a genuine desire to assist.

Rhaenys' smile widened, conveying a sense of trust and assurance. "Of course," she replied, her voice filled with confidence in her faithful friend.

Sleep descended upon the weary Targaryen princess like a gentle mist, settling her mind and soothing her restless spirit. This time, as her eyelids grew heavy and she surrendered to the realm of dreams, the chaotic visions of battle and strife were replaced by a more tender and enchanting sight.

In the realm of slumber, a radiant girl emerged, her beauty rivaling the brilliance of the sun dancing upon the crest of the waves. Every delicate feature, every curve of her form, exuded a captivating allure that seemed to capture Rhaenys' heart in a breathtaking spell. It was as if this ethereal maiden held the essence of the sea and the sun within her very being, casting a luminous glow that illuminated the depths of Rhaenys' soul.

With a single glance, the girl wove an enchantment upon Rhaenys' heart, igniting a joy and euphoria that surpassed any previous experience. Even the profound bond she shared with Talya paled in comparison to the overwhelming bliss that now flooded her being. In the realm of dreams, Rhaenys found solace in this mesmerizing vision, as her heart soared to new heights, entwined with the ethereal girl who had captured her dreamscape.

In the enchanting meadow, bathed in the soft glow of twilight, the girl stood as a living embodiment of ethereal beauty. Leaves, like delicate tokens of nature's embrace, found their place within the silver cascade of her hair, shimmering with an otherworldly radiance akin to moonlight's gentle caress. She was adorned in a resplendent white dress, a vision of purity against the dark backdrop of nature's canvas. As if a reflection of her mother's elegance, her hair cascaded in soft curls, intertwining with the pristine fabric of her gown.

Rhaenys' gaze lingered on the girl's exquisite features, finding solace in the familiarity that tugged at her heart. Soft curls, reminiscent of her mother's own locks, cascaded down in loose tendrils, delicately framing her porcelain face. Yet, as her eyes traced the intricate details, Rhaenys' attention was drawn to a subtle revelation—a pair of small braids, artfully intertwined within the silver strands, accentuated by the contrasting darkness of coal-colored hair. It was a delicate fusion of her own Valyrian heritage and the lineage of another, intertwining in a mesmerizing display.

The girl's flawless complexion resonated with Rhaenys. Every contour of her face exuded an air of familiarity, akin to a reflection in a mirror. However, it was when Rhaenys locked eyes with her, that her heart fluttered with recognition. Within those captivating orbs, reminiscent of Robert's mischievous charm, lay a symphony of emotions—mirth, joy, and an undeniable spark of life. Like sapphires reflecting the vast expanse of the sky, her eyes shimmered with a brilliance that mirrored the blue heavens.

My daughter, my child. Rhaenys knew that the young girl who stood before her was the same one she was carrying in her womb now.

As Rhaenys yearned to draw closer to the mysterious silver-haired girl, a peculiar sensation gripped her body, rendering her immobile, just as she had experienced in her previous dream where the enigmatic boy had appeared. It ignited a spark of curiosity within her, weaving threads of connection between these apparitions and her own existence. Could that boy, who had valiantly fought her father in her dream, truly be her son as well? The thought lingered, a tantalizing possibility that begged for further exploration.

Meanwhile, the silver-haired girl, a vision of grace, gracefully rose from the meadow, her delicate form bathed in an otherworldly luminescence. With measured steps, she began to traverse the ethereal expanse, drawing nearer to Rhaenys. A surge of excitement surged through Rhaenys' veins—this girl, this ghostly embodiment, possessed an awareness, an acknowledgement of her presence. The girl's movement seemed ethereal, as if she were untethered from the constraints of the physical realm.

With bated breath and a mixture of anticipation and longing, Rhaenys witnessed as the girl stepped closer, gradually closing the distance between them. In that moment, time seemed to stand still, as if the universe itself held its breath, captivated by the impending reunion of mother and daughter.

The girl's eyes, like radiant orbs of celestial light, surpassed the brilliance of her brother's and father's gaze. Their deep, iridescent hues shimmered with an indescribable depth, evoking an ethereal enchantment that stirred Rhaenys' soul. Her heart surged with an overwhelming desire to envelop her daughter in an embrace, to hold her close and never let go. Yet, an invisible barrier thwarted her every attempt, as if the very fabric of their connection had been severed by an unseen force.

As tears streamed down Rhaenys' cheeks, a profound anguish and grief engulfed her being. The pain, more piercing than any she had ever experienced, pierced her heart like a thousand arrows. It surpassed the sorrow she had known when her own mother had departed from this world, resonating with an intensity that threatened to consume her entirely. The weight of her despair became an unbearable burden, causing her knees to tremble and buckle beneath the crushing weight of her emotions. And as her body yielded to the overwhelming weight of her grief, she sank to the ground, her strength ebbing away.

On bended knees, Rhaenys remained in a posture of surrender before daughter. The weight of her sorrow pressed heavily upon her, causing her gaze to remain cast downward, unable to meet the gaze of the silver-haired girl standing before her.

But then, gentle hands, as tender as a summer's breeze, tenderly cupped Rhaenys' anguished face, coaxing her to lift her eyes. With an unwavering determination, the silver-haired girl mirrored her mother's position, gracefully descending to her own knees. One hand, which had once cradled Rhaenys' tear-stained cheek, now drifted to rest above her own heart, as if beckoning her mother to hear the echoes of a shared bond.

Rhaenys fixed her gaze upon her daughter, her eyes filled with a mix of longing, sorrow, and a glimmer of hope. The girl's lips curved into a bittersweet smile, betraying the weight of her own experiences. As if carried by a gentle breeze, the daughter's voice finally reached Rhaenys' ears, a tender melody that resonated with an underlying wisdom.

The words were softly spoken but carried a profound truth. They pierced through Rhaenys' heart, each syllable etching itself upon her very being. The daughter's voice held a maturity that belied her age, offering a solace that seemed to emanate from the depths of her soul.

"In my suffering, you played no part," the daughter's voice whispered, its ethereal quality encapsulating a profound understanding. "You cannot mend what has been broken... Release yourself from the grip of pain, for it will only devour you."

The words hung in the air, weaving a fragile tapestry of compassion and acceptance, urging Rhaenys to confront her own demons and embrace the healing journey that awaited her.

[spiritualdirections]

Ethan Hawke is directing a biopic of Flannery O'Connor called Wildcat. In the linked article, he takes to the pages of Vanity Fair to explain why.

His daughter Maya had discovered O'Connor's journals, rekindling Hawkes own interest in her that dated back to his youth, and together they started talking about making a movie. Then 2020 happened, and people tried to cancel O'Connor as being racist. Hawke got worried, until he started reading:

'I called Maya to talk over whether we should make this film. Is there a place in today’s cultural climate to tell the story of an American genius who also displayed abhorrent prejudices? What was O’Connor’s fundamental attitude toward people of color? Did the master provocateur’s tongue obscure her views or reveal them? 'Turns out, scholars have been examining O’Connor’s relationship to race since the 1970s. Alice Walker movingly describes O’Connor’s legacy in her essay “Beyond the Peacock: The Reconstruction of Flannery O’Connor,” written 45 years ago. '“Essential O’Connor is not about racism at all,” Walker writes, “which is why it is so refreshing, coming, as it does, out of such a racial culture. If it can be said to be ‘about’ anything, then it is ‘about’ prophets and prophecy, ‘about’ revelation, and ‘about’ the impact of supernatural grace on human beings who don’t have a chance of spiritual growth without it. … She destroyed the last vestiges of sentimentality in white Southern writing; she caused white women to look ridiculous on pedestals, and she approached her black characters — as a mature artist — with unusual humility and restraint. She also cast spells and worked magic with the written word. The magic, the wit, and the mystery of Flannery O’Connor I know I will always love.” 'In a 2001 New Yorker piece subtitled “Flannery O’Connor on Race and Religion in the Unreconstructed South,” cultural critic Hilton Als wrote, “Race and faith and their attendant hierarchies and delusions are O’Connor’s great theme. … But readings of this American master often overlook the originality and honesty of her portrayal of Southern whiteness. Or, rather, Southern whiteness as it chafed under its biggest cultural influence — Southern blackness. It’s remarkable to consider that O’Connor started writing … just a decade after Margaret Mitchell’s ‘Gone with the Wind.’ O’Connor’s most profound gift was her ability to describe impartially the bourgeoisie she was born into, to depict with humor and without judgment her rapidly crumbling social order.”

He and his daughter covered similar territory in their interview with the LA Times.

"In the last few years, there’s been a re-examination of O’Connor around issues of race in light of how she wrote about it privately when she was young. How did you grapple with presenting a nuanced depiction of her views of race and how they evolved in her life and work? "Ethan Hawke: Hopefully the movie answers that. This is a young person who grew up in the Jim Crow South, and that is her reality. I sometimes think when people are angry with Flannery O’Connor, what they mean is, “I am angry with America.” Because she is a great American artist and full of all the sin that that implies. There’s a great scholar who calls her a “recovering racist.” And America is in recovery from racism. "Linney: Some of America. "Ethan Hawke: Flannery doesn’t write about oppressed people. She doesn’t imagine that she knows what their experiences are. She knows white hypocrisy. And she writes about it because she knows it, meaning she lived it. She’s a part of it. She comes up from it. But if we don’t look at that, as a culture, we can’t see it around us, because it’s still here. "She was allergic to virtue signaling, which makes people really uncomfortable. My favorite line that we put in the movie was: 'The truth doesn’t change according to your ability to stomach it.'”

I'm not sure which is more interesting--that he chose to make this movie about a Catholic writer, or that he thinks the American people are able to make a complex judgment about complex people even when charges of racism have been made.